


from kingdom to kingdom

by mosttroubledbird (howlikeagod)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: BDSM, Light Bondage, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, dom!Nureyev, finally figured out what this pseud is for: embarrassing porn!!, i feel like the ! is barely necessary since at least for juno that's just canon, inspired by some VIFs (very important fanarts), sub!Juno, that fancy gentle dom nureyev aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 18:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12238710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlikeagod/pseuds/mosttroubledbird
Summary: Juno is pretty, Nureyev wears heels, and they are, perhaps, in love.





	from kingdom to kingdom

Peter has Juno on his knees. 

It’s a good look on him, shoulders pulled back by the tape around his wrists and a gleam of sweat along his temple. This is the only time his posture isn’t horrendous—eagerness and defiance in equal measure keeping his spine straight. 

Peter runs his fingers through the top of Juno’s curls, careful not to brush against his scalp. He hasn’t touched Juno at all yet, not skin-to-skin, nothing more than these little teases that edge him closer and closer to desperation. Peter takes careful note of the way Juno swallows and his lower lip trembles at the near-contact.

He’s really very pretty.

He’s wrapped in silk and lace that weaves spiderweb patterns across his lovely skin. It strikes a thrilling note of contrast to the marks already criss-crossing his arms and chest; scars are part of the landscape of his body, understandable for a lady with as bad a track record of taking care of himself as Juno has. As random as the stars in the sky, or the cracks and lines across the surface of Mars that trace the paths of ancient rivers—yet as beautiful as either, or both, or all the lovely chaos in the universe put together outshone by one mouthy detective.

Well, not so mouthy right now. He’s keeping his pretty mouth shut, as per request, until Peter says so. He has a lovely voice, of course, and when he begs or croons with pleasure it’s a greater work of art than any sonata Peter Nureyev has ever heard.

But sometimes this isn’t about lavished praise and a hoarse tenor—it’s about the challenge: to see if Juno can do it, and to reward him when he does.

“Now what to do with you, hmm?” Nureyev muses. He paces slowly around Juno, conscious of the way he twitches slightly every time one of Peter’s heels hits the floor with a hard _snap._ “I’ve quite a lot of ideas I think you’d like.” 

Peter reaches out a hand and trails it through the air over Juno’s bare shoulder, just a hair’s breadth from his skin. He shivers and his Adam’s apple bobs under the tight collar of his lingerie.

“I could whip you,” he continues casually, “spank you, get my hands around your throat—”

_“Nn,”_ Juno swallows back a moan. From his place behind him, Nureyev sees the muscles of Juno’s—gorgeous—ass tighten like he can’t help it but rock his hips forward into empty air.

Peter _tsk_ s.

“Oh, darling, you really shouldn’t be so keen on that one. Think of your lungs, you delicate little thing. Ah-ah! Don’t argue with me, Juno,” he admonishes when Juno’s lips part in familiar indignation. “You’re doing such a marvelous job staying quiet. I’d hate to have to gag you. I want to keep my options open for that mouth of yours.”

Juno’s jaw goes slack. He inhales shakily, closes his eye for a few, silent seconds, and opens it again to give Peter a burning stare and a nod.

“Excellent,” Nureyev praises. He steps around to face Juno and crouches low in front of him. “What do you think?” he asks, nearly a whisper, certain Juno can feel his breath on his face. Juno’s teeth sink into his own lower lip—chapped, poor dear, and just healed from a blow he took there while Peter was away. “Where should we begin?”

Juno just stares at him. Nureyev is caught up, suddenly, in the spell of that eye as surely as he ever was, from the start, and every day since. He’s thrown, unbalanced, shaken to his core; an uncommon position for Peter Nureyev to find himself in, but very little about it is unpleasant because— 

Well. Because it’s Juno.

But turning the tables is not on the menu for tonight, he’s afraid, so he puts a hand back in Juno’s hair and pulls, hard, knuckles against scalp and a groan pried from Juno’s throat that echoes like a hymn in Peter’s head.

Nureyev puts his other hand on Juno’s shoulder, uses him as a convenient prop to push himself up again, and leans over him. Juno cranes his neck back to keep their eye contact. He shifts his weight, onto one knee and then back.

“Uncomfortable, Juno?” Nureyev asks tenderly. “Here, let’s take some weight off your poor knees.” And the hand on Juno’s shoulder pushes, and pushes, until Juno topples over backwards with a raised pair of eyebrows and a soft, questioning noise.

Peter moves closer, heels still clicking loudly with every step, until his feet are between the apex of Juno’s sprawling legs. Nureyev lifts one foot, pointed like a dancer, and traces the toe of his shoe along Juno’s thigh, his abdomen, until—careful not to catch on that delicate lace—he presses the flat and the sharp, stiletto heel against Juno’s heaving chest.

Juno lets out a little cry when Peter pushes him down, as flat on his back as he can be with his arms bound. His breaths are sharp: in through his nose, out in a rhythmic whimper. He lies there, writhing, pinned to the ground like a butterfly on a card, and when Peter gives him just a _bit_ more pressure his cock twitches where it’s lying against lace across his lower belly.

“Oh, Juno,” Nureyev breathes. There is a pleading look in Juno's eye, his shoulders straining like he’s trying to break the tape holding them between his body and the floor to reach out and touch. The shine of sweat at his forehead is turning to drops; his throat is flushed and gleaming.

Peter takes his foot off of Juno. Juno gasps in a lungful of air, throat bobbing and neck straining to keep his head up and watch Nureyev, who steps forward again so his feet are at either side of Juno’s chest.

“Now, here’s my idea,” he says, and drops to his knees on either side of Juno’s head. 

Juno’s eye widens as Nureyev pulls his panties down his thighs and takes himself out. His lips part, open, inviting, and Peter is so grateful Juno kept up his end of the bargain as he sinks between them.

Juno’s mouth is warm and wet, loose, and he lets his neck go limp as Peter thrusts forward. It’s impressive, he’ll gladly admit, the way Juno lets him know what he wants while keeping his words to himself.

“You’re doing so well, love,” Peter hisses as he fucks Juno’s throat. There is a low moan around him that trembles over Nureyev’s skin, so he pushes down harder, feels Juno’s nose against his skin, feels Juno’s shoulders shaking under his thighs. “That’s it, sweetheart. Magnificent.”

He puts a hand behind Juno’s head and leans forward, braces himself with one forearm against the floor, grinds deep inside Juno until he barely pulls out at all anymore, twitching and panting and just on the very edge of it all. Juno’s tongue slides against him, finally—not the first time this evening he’s done something to Nureyev, though likely the first on purpose. And that’s all it takes, really, until he’s sighing and shuddering apart and Juno sinks down against the floor and takes it all, willingly, greedily, until Nureyev has nothing more to give.

Peter pulls back, flicks a strand of hair out of his eyes, and tucks himself away. He knows his chest and ears are probably scarlet red and his thighs are weak, but compared to Juno he’s a model of composure.

There’s come dribbling from Juno’s lips and tears from his eye; his hair is an abandoned bird’s nest; his whole body is trembling faintly. He’s a gorgeous wreck, and Nureyev needs to know how much further he can take that, how many pieces of Juno Steel he can pull apart tonight.

“You’re so beautiful,” Peter enthuses as he helps Juno sit up. “Let’s get you on the bed, my love, then I’ll give you what you need.”

That wins him a whimper, which wins Juno a grin as Peter deposits him on the bed. He lays Juno on his stomach first, to unwind the tape from his wrists. Juno groans when his arms are freed, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing again. He yelps when Peter can’t help but give him a smack on the ass, glancing over his shoulder, wide-eyed.

“Roll over, darling, let me look at you,” Nureyev instructs. Juno does what he’s asked, and sits up at the edge of the bed, cock straining, nipples pert, dripping with desperation. “Gorgeous.”

He can tell that Juno dearly wants to say something—whether that would be begging or snark, it’s impossible to say—but Nureyev doesn’t give him the chance. He kisses Juno hard, deep, licks the taste of himself out of Juno’s mouth and lays a palm against his throat to feel the pulse hammering there.

Juno moans, high and long. Peter smiles and climbs onto the bed, pulling Juno down and closer to the middle of the mattress.

“Now I’d like you to roll over again for me, is that alright?”

Juno nods and rolls onto his front, stretching out against the sheets and arching his back. He sighs. Peter relishes the sound of lace against the soft sheets and the sight of Juno rubbing himself against the bed like a cat.

“Hold still for me,” Nureyev says between kisses to Juno’s neck, between his shoulderblades, down his back. Then lower, sliding the palm of one hand gently along Juno’s side, lacy garment sticking to his skin with sweat, until he reaches the swell of his ass and parts Juno’s cheeks with his thumbs.

Juno moans and whines through clenched teeth as Peter gets to work. He eats him out slowly, works his tongue into Juno and pulls back to lick long stripes across him. Juno’s thighs tense, his fingers fisted in the sheets, shaking the whole bed frame with the way his feet kick against the mattress.

When Peter stops, Juno stops breathing. His body freezes until Peter’s teeth sink, suddenly, into the soft flesh of his ass; that kicks him back into motion, pressing his forehead against the bed and huffing a breath.

“Juno,” Nureyev mutters against the mark he’s left on Juno’s skin, “let me hear that voice of yours again, if you would,” and dives back in.

“Shit!” Juno shouts, now that he’s allowed. “Shit, fuck, holy hell, Nureyev, please, God, goddamn, goddamnit—”

Peter would laugh, if his tongue weren’t otherwise occupied. Juno is just as beautiful swearing a blue streak as he is whining around a cock in his mouth, and Nureyev _did_ just fuck him on the floor so there’s little room to judge, but if were he really dedicated to the artistry of the thing, Juno’s tone would be all wrong.

Artistry simply doesn’t seem to matter as much, when Juno Steel is involved. He’s a work of art on his own—a masterpiece Peter would steal in a heartbeat, has done, over and over and with an honesty he hasn’t allowed himself for half a lifetime.

A masterpiece who has finally reached the point of incoherent shouting, it seems. The noises coming out of Juno are not so much moans as they are hoarse screams, and that’s exactly the place Nureyev hoped to reach this evening.

He slips his tongue into Juno again, looser now and slick with it. Juno’s body is arched like a bow so tightly his back might break in half, so it’s easy for Peter to slide one hand up to brush over Juno’s nipples and the other to squeeze generously at his cock. 

It’s easy, and gentle—and so is Juno, spilling over like a waterfall, the sudden silence as his voice catches and stops giving the moment a feeling of slow-motion. Peter is enraptured, enamored, enthusiastically encouraging of Juno as he strokes him slowly through it all.

Juno is still shaking when Peter crawls up the bed to lie beside him. He runs a hand through the close-shaved hair at the side of his lady’s head, damp with sweat, and cradles Juno’s cheek.

“Thank you, Juno,” he says, and Juno laughs breathlessly.

“Thankin’ me… I should be, uh,” he yawns, “thanking you, or something.” His eye drifts shut as Peter wraps an arm around him. “Hey, we can’t— We can’t stay here. Gotta clean up, or it’s all gonna dry and be…” He pulls a tight, disgusted face, and his tongue peeks out just a bit.

Peter has used many flattering adjectives to describe Juno, but _cute_ has seldom been one; and yet, he admits silently to himself, this is really and truly the cutest thing Peter Nureyev has seen in his whole life.

“I’ll take care of it, love,” he promises, dropping a kiss on Juno’s forehead. “I’ll wake you when I need to strip the sheets.”

“‘m not… sleeping,” Juno argues. Peter chuckles.

“Clearly not,” he says.

“Gotta at least get out of this… thing.” Juno gestures to the rumpled lace he’s wrapped in. “Prob’ly ruined it, though.” He looks sad at the thought.

“I know a handful of very good, very discreet dry cleaners,” Nureyev reassures him. “Allow me.”

Juno is rolled over in a dryer corner of the mattress, unzipped from his silk and lace, and pulled to his feet beside the bed.

Nureyev cleans them both—and the bedsheets—up best he can, warm washcloths and kisses on Juno’s shoulders. It’s a ritual by now, a process, a way of caring and being cared for that they have both grown more accustomed to.

Nureyev, letting himself care. Juno, letting himself be cared for. Not so new anymore, but the novelty has not worn off.

Or, perhaps, what he calls ‘novelty’ could be something else altogether. It’s too early to tell; Peter will have to come back again.

**Author's Note:**

> the arts that inspired the bulk of this are by ursminor and wastrelwoods, the title is from "Driving, Not Washing" by Richard Siken because he really captures that big Jupeter mood in everything don't he


End file.
